23rd August 2007 - Losing the point, the plot, the will

He couldn't talk to me today. He didn't manage to make eye contact and he couldn't make sense. He didn't know who I was. He knew - as he usually does - that I am connected to him but he didn't have a clue I was his daughter (even if I'm genetically not). He seemed pleased to see me, but that quickly left, replaced by iritation, trying, and failing, to tell me something. He regularly fell asleep and when he woke had forgotten I was there. Sometimes when he woke from his minute, or two minute, brief nap, he'd be so clueless that I was there or who I was that he'd get up to go on another wander and be annoyed when I brought him back to me. He'd sit back down and we'd try to talk again until he'd get frustrated and back down into sleep again.

What is the point. What is the fucking point of going to see him. Does he enjoy it? I don't think so. Do I just remind him of the life he's leaving, the life he had? Given that 75% of the time, maybe more, he thinks I'm my Mum, and that I leave him there on a daily basis, just what does that do to his conscious head? The woman he was married to for over 30 years,comes to visit him in a place that constantly confuses and hurts him, constantly gives him pain and degrades him but she, she of all people, leaves him there. She leaves him, smiling and waving as she goes, and backing away, dodging his proper kisses to give him her cheek and an air kiss.

I'm losing the plot. I need to keep going, of course I do. It's not just for him it's for Mum too. She'd have done more, but I'm doing what I can.

I do have the will to go - most of the time - but that's sometimes going too. Usually I can guilt myself into it. I can look at Mum and Dad's photo by my front door - they smile out at me and show me people I didn't really know. But recently I look at that photograph and see two strangers, two people I've never known who are long lost to me.

I'm self-indulging. I'll stop it. I'll see him tomorrow. Of course I will. I keep thinking of Patricia's husband, who visited every day for 5 or 6 hours for 15 years. It's not "What would Jesus do" that bothers me. "What would Alan do". He'd visit. He visited, rain, snow, hail or shite.

Sorry Dad. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry. I'm sitting here, typing this crap, and you are there sitting in yours. I'm glib, I'm vacuous, I'm useless. I'll be there tomorrow.